Decision Point
by Adamantwrites
Summary: Although there is JAM (Joe/Adam Moments), it is more an Adam story. Will Adam trade one life for another in order to save Joe? Adult language and violence. All recognizable settings and characters are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
1. Chapter 1

Decision Point

One

We should have left sooner. I had sensed it as soon as the big man walked in - there was going to be trouble and I should have grabbed Joe by the scruff of his neck and dragged him out of the saloon. When it comes to Joe, well, as Cain asked, am I my brother's keeper? Joe needs one so I try to keep him on a tight leash and I should have known better. So, as the oldest brother of three, I take responsibility for the incident that occurred that set my feet on the inevitable path.

To Joe, the fur trapper behind us, reeking of his own filth and rotted meat, was a source of amusement. Joe kept looking at me, suppressing his giggles, scrunching his face up and holding his nose the way he did as a kid after someone had been in the outhouse before him and left an unpleasant reminder.

The large trapper, his bulk even larger with the furs he wore, leaned on the bar, his foot resting on the railing, and downed drinks and between slugs of cheap whiskey, looked about the saloon. I told Joe while keeping my head and voice low, "Don't catch that trapper's eye, just like you don't a snarling dog – he'll see it as a challenge if you do."

But I guess Joe had had enough of me, oldest brother, full to the brim with a know-it-all attitude as he often complained. So, Joe dug in - he hadn't finished his beer, he said. But I wanted to leave so I stood, and grabbed his upper arm.

"C'mon, let's go."

Joe jerked his arm away and said louder than necessary, "I said, I haven't finished my beer."

The noise level in the saloon subsided. People will stop their own conversations to eavesdrop on another, especially if it sounds like a fight might ensue. "Well, swallow it and let's go."

"What's crawled up your ass to make you so eager to leave? Just sit back down and wait on me for a change." Joe sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out under the table. His bootheels made trenches in the sawdust that was at least an inch deep to absorb the brown sputum from the tobacco chewers who could never seem to hit the cuspidors – or didn't even bother to.

"Look, Joe, horse piss tastes better than that beer. Let's go." I kept my voice low but couldn't keep the irritation out. I could feel that twinge in my gut as the trapper turned about to watch. He took his foot from the railing and half-turned toward us, still leaning on one arm. I stood and waited while Joe sipped as slowly as possible. "Now, or I'll leave without your ass. C'mon." I reached for his arm again[Js1] but he swung away and the remainder of the beer splashed on the trapper. The man suddenly stood, surprisingly lithe for one so thick although I could see that most of his bulk was furs. It was a cold night but I knew the chill that ran up my spine was pure fear, the kind where you know something bad is going to happen and you're helpless to stop it. The trapper pulled out a long, nasty "pig-sticker", more than likely his skinning knife, and leaned in slightly and swung the blade across Joe's lower left arm that still held the beer mug. Joe dropped the mug, and around the slash in the fabric, his jacket sleeve slowly became red as if through magic. Joe grabbed his arm and I grabbed him and whipped out my gun at the same time, aiming it at the trapper.

I could hear chairs being pushing back and people rushing to get out of the way of a possible stray bullet, but I had no intention of shooting or fighting.

"Look," I said as I slowly backed out, my free hand pushing Joe toward the door, "That was pure accident – no harm intended. We're leaving now and I suggest you stay here and have another drink and enjoy your evening." The trapper circled about, his legs soft in the knees and his arms out, one still holding that goddamn knife. But he didn't follow us out – no one did, and we mounted our horses and rode out of that town as fast as we could.

After twenty minutes of hard riding, I pulled up and Joe followed suit.

"Let me see your arm, Joe." By then, his jacket sleeve and shirt underneath were soaked red and some blood had also stained the thigh of his pants leg.

Joe awkwardly pulled his arm out of the sleeve, keeping his jacket half-on. "It's just a scratch," he said with a weak laugh, "but damn, it stings."

And Mercutio's words from _Romeo and Juliet_ ran through my head: _a scratch…'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. _An ill omen? No, I don't believe in such things.

We dismounted and I did what I could, washing out the cut with water from my canteen. Joe clenched his jaw but I imagine it stung like hell. I wished I had had the sense to grab a bottle of whisky before we left to pour over the cut but I hadn't. I used a clean bandana from my saddlebag and wrapped it about Joe's arm. He was now shivering a bit while I helped him on with his jacket.

"You okay, Joe?"

"Yeah, Adam" he said with a chuckle. "It's just cold – or maybe a goose walked over my grave." He chuckled, trying to make light of things. "And, Adam…I should've left when you…well, it's my own damn fault this happened."

"Yeah, it is," I said, poking him in the chest. "Next time, listen. But right now, let's get more distance between us and that town." I looked into the darkness behind us but saw nothing and heard nothing. Joe mounted Cochise the way any other person would - he didn't swing himself up into the saddle, his usual manner, and that's how I knew his arm was giving him pain. But we had only about four days' ride before we were home and Hop Sing or Doc Martin could then handle it.

We rode for another hour and then stopped to make camp for the night. We had eaten in that town, a dinner of fried potatoes, limp green beans and overcooked beef but we'd decide we were both tired of jerky, bacon and canned beans. But I asked Joe if he was hungry anyway and he said no, just wanted to sleep and leave early in the morning. We built up a good fire, having enough wood left over for the morning, spread out our bedrolls and soon, I was asleep.

The next morning, I made the coffee, letting Joe sleep longer. It was the frying bacon that woke him and he seemed a bit groggier than usual. So, once we finished and cleaned up, I asked Joe about his arm.

"Just a little sore," he said, touching it lightly. But he was favoring it.

"Let me take a look at it," I said, reaching for his arm but he stepped back.

"It's fine. Let's just get home." He started to mount up but the saddle slipped and Cochise twisted sideways. "Whoa, whoa there. Take it easy," Joe said, soothing the animal and soon the animal stood quietly but watched Joe. I think Cochise sensed something was wrong with Joe and was leery.

"Looks like you forgot to tighten that cinch."

Joe just chuckled nervously and pushed the saddle right. He tried to tighten the cinch with his left hand, winced, and then tried with his right. I walked over and tightened it myself. But before I walked to my horse, I demanded to see his arm.

"Adam, why the hell you have to be so goddamn serious? It's just a small cut. Now back off!" Joe shouldered me aside. I fought wanting to slam him up against his horse but held back and mounted up. And we rode in silence.

After five hours of riding, the day had warmed up a bit and birdsongs filled the air. I saw a few deer and even a fox slipping back into the trees. Once we reached an open area with a creek flowing through it, I figured it would be a good place to stop and eat a little something. We were making good time. I pulled up my horse and turned around in the saddle but Cochise kept coming, only stopping because I had. Joe sat with his head bowed as if asleep in the saddle.

"Hey, Joe," I called. "Hungry?" Joe didn't respond. I quickly dismounted and went to him. "Joe." Joe's head bobbed slightly and then he slowly turned his head toward me. His eyes were glazed and he worked to focus on me. His cheeks were flushed. He was in a bad way.

Joe swallowed hard and then thickly said, "We home?"

"No," I said. "I just want to look at your arm. Is that okay?" In reply, Joe held out his arm, his eyes trying to focus on me. It was as if he fought for control of his head. Even before I pushed up his jacket sleeve, I saw his hand was puffy and when I did push it up, he swore and winced. "Sorry, Joe. I'll be gentler." I held his hand and unbuttoned the shirt cuff and then folded it back a few times. Thin red streaks were starting to run up his arm, a sign of sepsis caused by that damn skinning knife. I needed to get him to a doctor and fast. I argued with myself whether I should wash his arm in the creek first or to keep on going. Joe was in a bad way and my biggest fear was that he would topple out of the saddle.

"Joe, can you hold on until we get home?" I knew that if we passed a town where there was a doctor, we were stopping but Joe would protest if I said it so I just didn't tell him.

"I'm really sleepy, Adam, I can't…what I want to say…Adam…get me home."

"Okay, Joe. Okay." I quickly filled our canteens with the cold water and put his about the saddle horn. "Joe, if you're thirsty, drink. Drink as much as you need."

I hoped his kidneys wouldn't shut down – I had seen it happen to men and death soon followed. If Joe later wanted to stop to take a piss, I'd know he was still okay. But I needed to find a doctor.

Close to nightfall we came upon a small house that had smoke coming from the chimney. A barn stood about 10 yards from the house and behind it stretched a field of a beginning crop. Homesteaders, I surmised, and homesteaders usually settled near a town. So, I pulled up our horses as I was leading Cochise now – it took all of Joe's determination to stay upright – but before I could call out, a man stepped out on the porch with a rifle pointed at us.

"What do you want, Mister?"

"My brother here, he's got an infected arm. Is there a doctor hereabouts?"

A woman in her mid-30's stepped out behind the man. She held a child about a year of age and another child, a young girl, clung to her skirts.

"No," he said, "ain't no doctor 'round here anymore. So, you best be goin' on your way." He motioned with his rifle in the direction he expected us to go.

"Asa," the woman said, "a little kindness to strangers will be rewarded in heaven. Remember the sermon last Sunday, when the preacher talked about hospitality to strangers who might be angels."

The man snorted. "They look like angels to you?"

The woman sighed and then, bypassing her husband, spoke to Adam. "We had a man in town who took care of all of us about here – our animals too. He had picked up a lot about medicines and such but wasn't a real doctor. Anyway, he died, was killed. Must be what? Three, four years, Asa?"

"Yeah, about that long ago."

The woman spoke again. "Now there's a woman close by – what would you say, Asa? "Bout two miles north of here? Was her husband killed the doc."

"Yeah," Asa said, not taking his eyes from us.

"Well," the woman continued, "she knows about herbs and such, how to take down fevers, help with toothaches, colic, broken bones and all, and if we're needin' help, we go to her. Her name's Belva Stewart, but if her husband's to home this time of night, you'd do better just to keep riding until you get to the next town."

"How will I know if her husband's home?" I asked.

The man snorted. "If you get blown out of your saddle by a .00 shotgun blast, he's home."

It didn't seem that I had a choice. Joe was getting worse, far more confused and he had developed a fever. I had wrapped my bedroll blanket about him, tying the ends to keep it about him, but he still shivered, his teeth chattering. "I guess I'll have to chance it." I started to go, kicked my horse, but the woman called out and I stopped.

"Wait! Wait just a moment! Asa, hold Benny for me." She handed the baby to her husband who shifted the rifle to hold the child who sucked his thumb. The little girl now hid behind her father's legs and peeked around them to see us.

After a few minutes, the woman came out, pulling a shawl about her. "Here," the woman said, handing up a package of brown paper tied with butcher string. "It's some biscuits and slices of roast pork leg. It's not much but in case you have to ride more tonight, well, it may be some comfort."

"I thank you, ma'am. I appreciate it and you said the woman is named Stewart?"

"Yeah" the man replied as the woman went back to the porch. "And like my wife said, iffen her husband's there, well, he's always drunk in the evenings. He may dispatch you and your brother both to hell so be wary. He's a nasty piece of work."

I thanked them both, for the information and for the food and turned the horses. The whole family stood on their porch and watched us ride away into the falling darkness.

* * *

[Js1]


	2. Chapter 2

**Although I appreciate reviews, guest reviews will be removed w/o comment. I hope you understand.**

**Two**

I almost missed seeing the Stewart house as it was set back from the rutted road and partially hidden by trees, but lamplight from a window caught my eye and I turned us up a worn way, approaching slowly and leading Cochise while Joe clasped the saddle horn with both hands, struggling to stay upright. I swear, as the house came into view, I questioned if this could be the right house as it looked more like an abandoned shack than anything else. There were bare patches on the roof and it sorely wanted whitewashing.

I stopped a few yards from the front porch and we sat our horses. I was filled with a sense of doom, waiting for the door to be flung open and the sparking light from the barrel of a shotgun to blind me while a thud on my chest blew me off my animal. I'm no coward, although certainly no hero, and avoid people who are trouble; to do otherwise is foolhardy. And if I hadn't had Joe to think about and just my own skin, I would have kept on going. But Joe was there behind me and he was in a bad way and getting worse.

"Adam" he said, raising his head. "Is this the place we were told about?"

"I think so," I replied.

"Adam, pull your gun. You heard what they said, that the man might shoot you."

"That's no way to ask for help, with a drawn gun. Just hold on, Joe." He attempted a smile and I believe if his arm wasn't paining him, Joe would have drawn his without letting me know. I looked back at him just to be certain he hadn't.

I called out. "Hello, the house." My heart thumped so loud that those inside could probably hear it. I saw the curtain of a small window pushed aside, an indeterminate face, and then the curtain fell back into place. I held my breath as the door slowly opened and then relief was so intense, I felt weak. A woman stepped out on the ramshackle porch and she held no weapon, just her arms across herself holding her shawl tight against the cold.

"You Mrs. Stewart?" I asked. She nodded. I couldn't see her face as the light coming from behind her kept her face shrouded in darkness. "One of your neighbors about two miles back, told me you were good at healing and my brother here, he's sick." I glanced back at Joe.

"What is it? 'fluenza? Winter fever?" she asked.

"No – nothing contagious. His arm's infected from a knife wound. It's pretty bad and we have most three days ride ahead of us. If you would look at him and see if there's anything…" I stopped as she walked to Joe and looked up into his face. He opened his eyes but said nothing to her. Then she stepped back and turned to me. I could see a bit of her face and something was off but I couldn't quite discern what it was.

"Bring 'im in. There may be somethin' I can do but I'm not a doctor, just make tinctures, concoctions from herbs, barks and such. Most of what I learned about doctorin', I learned takin' care of myself. But if it's winter fever, 'fluenza or cholera, well, I have four dead children buried out back. I couldn't save them."

"Thank you," I said. She nodded and then turned and went inside but left the front door open. It seemed, much to my relief, she was alone.

~ 0 ~

"Put 'im on the divan," she said, motioning to the piece of furniture. It was of faded blue fabric with a few tears in the seams and the arms were bare in many places with the batting exposed. But Joe sighed with relief when he was finally flat on his back, his left arm to the outside.

"How old's this boy?" she asked, pushing aside his curls to feel his forehead.

"Just turned 18 a few months ago. Let me show you the cut." I tried to remove Joe's jacket but then asked for a knife to cut if off him. He protested. Marcia Overton had said the green color brought out his eyes – she would be upset. Joe begged us not to slice the sleeve and I refrained from reminding him that the sleeve already was damaged.. You'd think that green jacket was a king's divestments the way Joe begged me. I told him to not be stupid but together, Mrs. Stewart and I managed to get his arm out. Then I slit the length of his shirt sleeve and folded it open and unwound the bandana. An awful smell hit me, like carrion, and the wound looked much worse than it had the last time I saw it.

I expected Mrs. Stewart to gasp as it was quite the disgusting sight, the skin around the wound discolored, pus oozing out and the small red streaks stating their run up his arm. But she didn't behave as if it was anything out of the ordinary, wasn't at all surprised and said, "I've seen worse. Much longer without no medicine nor nothin' and this here boy would have to lose that arm."

"What?" Joe's eyes widened and he grabbed my shirt front with his right hand as I leaned over. "Adam, I don't wanna lose my arm! Please, Adam, please - don't let me lose my arm!" His voice broke into a sob. "Please! Please!"

I gently loosened his fist and lay his right arm across his chest. "You're not going to lose your arm. I wouldn't let that happen." I hoped I sounded convincing and I guess I did because Joe closed his eyes. I tossed the damp bandana into the fire; Joe required a clean bandage. I turned to the woman who still stood and looked down at Joe, her right hand crossed over her left. In the light from the fireplace, I saw what had made her look so odd – her left check was caved in. Apparently, she had lost most of her teeth on the left side of her jaw, either through accident or from her husband's fist. I credited her husband. As for her age, she could have been anywhere from 30 to 50 – a hard life does that to women.

"Mrs. Stewart…" I started.

"Call me Belva." She said without looking at me.

"What can you do for him?" I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and my mouth was dry. She seemed to be thinking, calculating.

"I'll put some steamin' hot cloths on the wound – it'll draw out some of that pus, clean things up. Then I'll have to cut away some of that putrid flesh – that and the pus's what stinks so bad. I have a concoction that'll ease 'im to sleep before I do it."

But she didn't move. Joe had closed his eyes but his breathing was labored. I wondered what I should say to impel her to do something and then I realized she expected to be paid for her trouble. I just hadn't thought of it, but of course, her time and energy, not to mentions the remedies and surgery were invaluable – if they worked.

"I'll pay you of course." I nervously shifted from one foot to the other. The skin at back of my neck crawled.

Belva looked at me. "I've been thinking of that – if I should ask for something in return. Usually, I don't ask – offer my help freely but people pay me out of their heart's goodness."

"Something in return? Of course. How do people usually pay you?" I was having trouble following her. But then I was tired and worn out from worry.

"A chicken, haunch of pork, eggs, milk, a sack of flour, bushel of potatoes – whatever they have that they can spare."

"I can pay you money – whatever you ask." I didn't see this as a time to dicker over cost, "Just please, my brother needs help."

Belva looked at me. I could see she had once been a beautiful woman, but now, only a pale shadow of her younger glory remained. I put her at about 40 at the most, and it's always a shame to see the degradation of a woman; it seems not so sharp a contrast in a man but a woman, you notice – and grieve.

"I'm more for bartering…but I'll think about it." She started for, what I saw through the doorway, was the kitchen, but she turned. "I'll put on the kettle for hot water and you might as well come get a cool cloth for your brother's head; he might also like a glass of water. And if you'd like some coffee, I've got a pot on the stove along with some simmerin' pork and beans in case you're hungry."

"Thank you," I said. Then I bent down and gently touched Joe on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked up at me. "Joe, I'm stepping in the kitchen. I'll bring you back some water and a cold cloth. Everything will be fine." He weakly smiled at me and I left.

I helped Joe sit up to drink the water and once he lay back down, I wiped his face. Soon, Belva came back in with a pan of steaming water and placed a soaked cloth on Joe's arm. He winced and gritted his teeth. Belva kept up her ministrations, asking me to empty the pan and fill it again from the tea kettle. I did as she asked and once back with her and Joe, I noticed by the mantle clock that it was almost half past 8:00.

I asked Belva if she minded if I rolled myself a smoke and she said no, so I did. I stood by and smoked, watching and waiting, nervously listening for horse hooves outside. Then I thought I had better bring up the warning I'd received about her husband.

"Your neighbor, the one who told me about you and what help you've been to everyone hereabouts, also warned me about your husband. You expect him home soon?" I flicked the cigarette butt in the fireplace.

Belva looked up at me; she was sitting in a wooden kitchen chair pulled next to the divan. "He'll be home – as he always says – when he's goddamn good and ready. Would be home 'cept he's out of 'shine' – a pestilence hit the corn crop last year and Naylor couldn't brew as much clear as he usually does – ran out 'bout a month ago so he went to town to drink. When he comes home, he'll be roarin' drunk – and nastier than before he left – and I used to not believe that was possible. I know better now."

"What will he, I mean, will he mind our being here?"

She snorted. "He'll mind. But I've been thinkin' of a way you can pay me. If you want me to do more for your brother, more than just steaming the wound and help save his arm, well, you can pay me by killing my husband, Naylor." She put the cloth back in the water and then wrung it out and placed it again on Joe's arm.

I wasn't clear on what I had just heard. "Excuse me? Did you just ask me to kill your husband?"

"Yes. You seem surprised." Belva glanced up at me.

I am. Why would you want me as the one to kill your husband?"

"One main reason - 'cause I hate him. 'Cause every time he thinks life does him bad, he takes it out on my face. 'Cause I'm tired of him comin' home piss drunk and forcin' me to allow him his 'rights', as he calls them. I'm tired of buryin' children. But mainly, it's 'cause he's the devil himself."

"Yeah, but why me? If he's bad to you, get the law on him."

"Ain't got no law in Goshen." Belva turned to a restless Joe and spoke soothingly to him.

"Goshen?"

"Yes. The nearby town is Goshen – Land of Goshen. We used to have a sheriff named Clayton. A good, family man who upheld the law. Naylor chased him out. Set fire to his house one night. The sheriff and his family barely escaped the fire alive. 'Course, Naylor said he didn't do it just like he said he didn't kill the 'Doc' when everybody knew he did. A few probably even saw it. Naylor told Clayton to prove he'd set the fire which he couldn't. But everyone knew Naylor had done it for revenge – that's Naylor's way. You wrong him, and he'll destroy you anyway he can.

"See Sheriff Clayton arrested Naylor for bein' drunk and disord'ly; fined him $10.00 for bustin' a man's jaw over something - I don't know what it was but it doesn't matter. And Naylor said – I stood there and saw the whole thing, heard the whole thing – said that it would be a shame after havin' 'scaped a burnin' house, for his two little boys to meet a worse end than fire. Clayton quit that very afternoon and moved his family away, tellin' nobody where they were goin'."

"If you want your husband dead," I said, "why don't you just kill him yourself? You know all about herbs. Make a poisonous concoction or some such. Slip some in his food or drink – feed him castor beans. Who would know? Just you. Or shoot him one night when he rides up or blast his brains out while he's sleeping."

"No, can't have him die here. His older brother Orwell wouldn't believe I didn't do it – would know I killed Naylor and I don't even wanta think what he'd would do to me to avenge his brother. Orwell makes living with Naylor seem like Sundays all week.

"No, I can't do it but you're just passing through. You've been seen by my neighbors, the Watsons. If you go to Goshen and find a way to kill Naylor, well, like I said, there's no law in town – not that any lawman who knows Naylor wouldn't just look the other way. My husband's not well-liked, not at all. He's mean and cruel but people tolerate him because they're afraid of retribution from his side of the family, but you and this boy could be out of here before I get around to sending Orwell word of Naylor's death."

"I can't murder a man," I said. Joe watched me, opening his eyes and struggling to stay alert.

"Well, he'd think nothin' of murderin' you or this here boy. Once he gets home, Naylor won't let me tend to your brother. Can't you see that? No, he'd never allow it – ain't got a merciful bone in his body. And if you take your brother away now, I give him two more days – not much longer. So, if you want me to keep helpin' your brother, want me to take the next steps to help him, I will. But that's after you come back tonight with Naylor's body tied over his horse. That's the price for my help."

I didn't know what to say.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Belva stood up and stretched, her hands on her lower back. "I better put on a fresh pot of coffee on if I'm goin' to sit up with him. The teakettle too." She looked at me, "Unless you want me to bandage your brother's arm first so you can get back to ridin'?"

I tried to think of a way around all this but I felt dull and hemmed-in. Rarely does my intellect fail me – I've always relied on it, but at the moment ideas eluded me, as if I almost held a solution and then it slipped between my fingers. I knew from what that other family had said and then Belva, that Naylor Stewart was a nasty son-of-a-bitch but surely, he wouldn't kill Joe who was in too bad a shape to protect himself. I would be willing to ride away and camp nearby until Joe was well enough to leave but I couldn't be sure of what might result from my leaving Joe at another's mercy, at Naylor's mercy. It seemed that either I had to come back to Belva with a corpse or more than likely, bring one to the Ponderosa – Joe's. So far, all that had been done was the hot cloths and I had to admit that little tending had made the wound look better. The pus had stopped and it was as if the wound was open and clean and waiting for the next step. But for how long? If I took Joe away now, would he last until we reached a doctor?

"Where's the next town past Goshen?" I asked Belva. She pulled the heavy blanket up about Joe, putting his wounded arm with the hot compress on top.

"That would be Pineville." She looked a me but her face revealed nothing.

"How far?"

"Maybe 40 miles or more – it's in the next county. But we never have reason to go there so I don't really know. What do you want me to do? Bandage him up so you can go on?"

I wondered if she was taunting me and it made me grit my teeth; twice now she had asked me about bandaging Joe. I've never wanted to slap a woman before but her I did. I wondered if she got under Naylor's skin that way, skating around the edge of sensitive matters until he exploded. And Pineville was 40 miles. If we could travel at a fast clip, we could make it in a day, day and a half. But even if we could, no saying how bad Joe would be once we arrived without any doctoring. By that time, he might be past the point of stopping the infection. "No. Put on that coffee and the teakettle."

Belva left the room and Joe focused his glazed eyes on me. "Adam," he said with effort, "you're not going to do it, are you? You're not going to kill her husband so she'll doctor me, are you? Please, Adam – that would be murder. Let's keep going. I'll make it."

I wanted to say something light, to tease him, something to ease Joe's mind but nothing came to me. I forced a smile though and said, "Leave things to me, Joe. Don't worry; I'll take care of it. You just get some sleep." I went to slip on my trail coat and while waiting for Belva to return, I built up the fire agaist the creeping chill. I noticed the house was clean and well-tended. Belva had scrubbed floors and there was no dust on the mantle or anywhere else. The curtains were clean and ironed. But it was obvious that Naylor took no care with the outside and perhaps preferred the fact that his house looked so decrepit that a passerby would have no interest.

I could hear the kitchen noises, the sound of the creaking pump handle and the gush of water into a kettle – woman noises, and soon Belva walked back out.

"You leaving?" she asked me, wiping her wet hands on her apron.

I picked my hat off the table by the front door. "Yes. I'll be back in a while. Take care of my brother. Maybe you can get him to eat a little something."

"I have some fresh milk and bread. Can make milk toast if he'll eat it."

I nodded my approval and took a long look at Joe who lay as asleep, sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip. "How do I get to Goshen?"

Joe's eyes fluttered and he tried to sit up but fell back on the cushions. "Adam…don't."

Belva glanced at him but I ignored him. Then, with a sigh, she said, "Go west. Pass a creek to your right – you'll hear it and feel it some. The ground's kinda marshy 'bout that place and the trees are thick. Keep going and you'll ride into Goshen not long after."

"What's your husband wearing that I could use to identify him."

"Brown and green plaid shirt and overalls – what he usually wears. He's a big man – and loud. The more he drinks the louder he gets and like I said, the meaner he gets."

"No jacket? Saloons have a cold draft on nights like this."

"Not much bothers Naylor 'cept when a man – or a woman - thwarts him."

"What type of gun does he carry?"

She chuckled. "He doesn't. Just a rifle in his scabbard – that's it."

I nodded, put on my hat, turned, and set my feet on my way.

~ 0 ~

I passed the creek as Belva had directed and it wasn't long before I saw buildings and a faded wooden sign declaring, _Welcome to Land of Goshen_. It appeared either one or more people had taken offense to the sentiment or decided it made a good target as the sign was riddled with bullet holes. I rode down what served as main street. It was quiet except for a few barking dogs, some voices being carried on the night air, and the distant sound of a jangling piano playing an unfamiliar tune in 4/4 time. Someone was awake and wanted sprightly music.

Following the music, I easily found the saloon. It also had a faded sign over the door announcing _The Dog's Head_ and below it, the painting of a nondescript dog's head, but no bullet holes decorated it. A few horses were tethered outside and I added my own. People in town would walk, not ride their horses and looking past the swinging doors, the place seemed full but was disarmingly subdued. I stepped in and looked about before bellying up to the bar. As I approached it, there was crunching beneath my bootheels but I ignored it.

"What'll it be, stranger?" the bartender, a rag in one hand, asked me. He seemed as weary as I felt.

"The whiskey any good?"

"If you're snake-bit." He would look past me, angling his head to see around me and then jerk back to focus on me. I turned to look and quickly picked out Naylor Stewart. Belva had done him justice, a big, loud man wearing the plaid shirt and overalls. He was playing poker with what looked like a few nervous locals.

"A beer then," I said. I half-turned to watch the poker game. The bartender put a mug of beer before me and having dropped a few coins on the counter which were quickly swept up by his large hand. I turned my back to the bar, resting on one elbow, and sipped my beer, appraising the situation. The beer didn't sit well on my empty stomach and I considered the large bowl of hard-boiled eggs sitting on the counter, a few pieces of shell around it but I realized the crunching beneath my feet were the shells tossed on the floor. At the other end of the bar were platters of cold meats, an open jar of what smelled like horseradish, a plate of bread slices. In order to make a sandwich, a man had to be a steady drinker; no saddle tramp could drift in and help himself to a sandwich. But, the idea of eating anything nauseated me so I just slowly sipped the warm beer.

The two barmaids who made small talk to a few of the patrons, didn't wear short, spangly dresses with revealing necklines or rouge their cheeks and lips. Actually, they looked more like somebody's mother. There was no piano man, just a player piano in the corner and it also had a few bullet holes in the front painted panel. I wondered if someone had shot at the piano for fun or if it had been the innocent victim of a few stray bullets.

One of the barmaids came over and laid down a small, dented tin tray on which she had delivered drinks. She was pleasant looking and offered a friendly grin, but one of her front teeth was dead. It was gray and marred an otherwise lovely smile. I smiled in return, tipped my hat and went back to watching the poker game. I suppose she noticed because she said lowly, "I wouldn't if I was you."

"Wouldn't what?"

"Join that game – that is unless you don't mind being parted with any money you might have." She leaned against the bar as well, facing me.

"Maybe I'm a good poker player," I added, smiling.

"As if that matters," she said. "That big ugly man is Naylor Stewart. He always wins. Always."

"Is he that good?"

"No."

"Then they're that bad?"

She snorted. "No. They're that scared. See, when you play Naylor, you best make sure you lose and he wins it all."

"Wait a minute," I said, standing up and putting down my mug. "If the games are rigged, why do they play with him?"

"The games aren't rigged but watch for a bit and you'll notice that everyone eventually folds – that is if they know Naylor and want to keep themselves intact – or alive."

I looked back at the poker game and saw a man place his hand down and give a twisted grin. The other three men looked nervous, their eyes shifting back and forth, sliding glances to one another.

"And he doesn't know?" I asked her.

"I said he was mean and ugly – not smart. Besides, Naylor usually doesn't come to town often anymore, just with his wife to buy supplies or such. From what I hear, Naylor's outta corn liquor so for the past month, he's been coming into town to do his drinking. This is a nice town on the whole, but when Naylor's here, people get nervous."

She stood up and nodded at one the corner, then turned to the bartender "Stan, Bert and Scoffield want two more beers."

"Comin' up." He filled two more mugs from a keg and placed them on the tray.

"Nice talkin' to you," the woman said to me before she walked away. But as she passed Naylor, he reached out and grabbed her arm, causing her to drop the tray and the beer spilled out across the floor.

"Now look what you done!" the woman said, exasperated. She crouched down to pick up the dropped objects and Naylor merely reached down and jerked her up.

"Make me a sandwich and bring me a beer - then you can clean up that mess." She looked at the men waiting for their beers and they looked down at the tabletop.

"Well, get your paws off me and I will."

I waited. No one else in the room moved, the only sound being the player piano.

Naylor chuckled, released her and then swatted her backside as she started to walk away. The barmaid jumped and Naylor roared with laughter and called out, "And I like lotsa meat, both on my sandwiches and my women!" The other poker players nervously chuckled. I wondered what I would have done if Naylor had really hurt her, what anyone would have done. A man who thinks he can say and do anything he chooses to anyone he desires is dangerous; he knows his power and it's formidable. So, I sat and contemplated my position.

I had hoped that on the ride to Goshen I would come up with an idea how to avoid killing Naylor. I've killed a few men in my time; some I'm reconciled with that action, but most I regretted. Sometimes, late at night when I can't sleep, I wonder if I've blackened my soul with their blood, if hell is yawning before me just waiting to swallow me down its gullet. But there was still the problem of Naylor. He carried no gun so I couldn't get him in a gun fight. Besides, he could very well be a better shot even drunk. I could, I considered, just shoot him in the side of the head and then, holding my gun before me and shouting warnings and threats, back out of the saloon and ride away. Would anyone come after me? No one knew my name, who I was, except Belva and although I didn't think she would tell anyone, one can't be sure of people. She'd do anything to avoid Naylor's brother's eye for an eye justice.

Maybe I could wait outside and while Naylor was walking to his horse, slam him with a pulled-up end post or a 2x4 lying in some alleyway. Hell, I'd be willing to shatter my new rifle by cracking it over Naylor's head. I could tie him up but what then? He was too big for me to manage; I couldn't get him over his horse unless someone was willing to help me. But that was a possibility. And then, I considered, the town had no sheriff but it had to have jail cells and perhaps I could lock Naylor in one. Perhaps I could convince the townspeople to keep him there for a week until Joe was able to travel. But in what jeopardy would that put the town? I didn't believe any would help for fear of what would follow. Once freed, would Naylor creep back to Goshen one night and set the whole town aflame? And Belva. If I said her husband was locked in the Goshen jail and would be released in a week, what would she do? She'd say, that's not what I bargained for and tell us to leave, turn her back on Joe. Her husband would be home after a few days and angrier than before.

But I just couldn't cold-bloodedly kill a man, even as barter for Joe's life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

I stared at the beer in my mug. I made up my mind to leave, go back to the Stewarts and take my chance with Joe's stamina. I knew I shouldn't gamble with my brother's life but I saw no recourse. It didn't seem as if Naylor would be leaving anytime soon but best I leave quickly and ride back to Joe, have Belva bandage him up good and try to reach Pineville. I could tie Joe to his saddle so he wouldn't topple off until we reached an actual doctor. And if Joe had to lose part of his arm, so be it – he was young, he'd cope. But that is if there was a doctor in Pineville and if that doctor had the necessary knowledge to treat Joe. I hate "ifs"

So much was unsure but there was one thing I was completely sure of – if I rode into the yard of the Ponderosa with Joe wrapped in a tarp and tied over his saddle, it would destroy my father. And no matter how much he would try, I don't think he could ever forgive me since I had a chance to save Joe and didn't take it. My father would understand that I couldn't just murder a man but in the depth of his soul, he would still curse me. So much turned on this point in time and I had to make a decision.

I left my unfinished beer on the bar and quickly walked out the swinging doors, stepping into the night air. Compared to the humid warmth of inside the saloon, the cold quickly cleared my mind and I could think. There had to be a way out of this predicament. There's always a way but sometimes, it's not the avenue I want to take. Naylor might be reasoned with if I could just find the key. I was sure he liked money – who doesn't - and I could offer to pay him for his wife's doctoring. Unless of course, Naylor knocked me on my ass, ground his bootheel into my face and then robbed me. No one would stop him; I was sure of that. And then Naylor would more than likely ride home and toss Joe out - or worse.

But if I could get Naylor to step outside with me, I might be able to explain about Joe, how ill he was and how his wife was doctoring him. Of course, I would say, I'm willing to sleep in the barn and plan to somehow pay you back for your wife's help - for your help. I wouldn't reveal who we were because Naylor may have heard of us and ransom could very well come to his mind. See, I was pretty sure I could follow the way Naylor would think, but there's always doubt.

There had to be something deep inside Naylor I could reach. My Pa always taught my brothers and me that there was good in everyone and if you looked hard enough, you'd find it. I found that wasn't true in all cases but perhaps Naylor had a soft spot. Some men will kill another man as soon as look at him and surprisingly have a woman's heart when it comes to animals. And then there are others who only feel they're alive when they're torturing anything that takes a breath, whether it be man or beast or the toad they squash under their boot.

I didn't know which type Naylor was but I had to find out. I saw no other way than to talk with him, but in an abundance of caution, I loosened the trigger loop of my holster. I stepped back inside the saloon. No one paid attention except the barmaid I had spoken to and the bartender. The woman raised her brows questioningly and I could sense the bartender becoming nervous. I guess through experience he recognized probable trouble. I walked back to where I had been before, setting myself up for the confrontation with Naylor – hopefully, a peaceful one. The bartender slipped over, wiping the bar in front of me.

"Look, mister," he said, practically whispering, "I don't want no trouble. I'll give you a whiskey – on the house – if you'll just drink it and leave."

"Well," I said, "I don't want any trouble either. I just need to talk to Naylor Stewart."

He stared at me for a few heartbeats. "I'll make it easy for you, mister. I'll smash a full whiskey bottle across your face. That'll save you from talking with that sonovabitch 'cause the result's gonna be the same."

"Thanks, but no thanks," I said.

"Okay. Your face." He looked at Naylor who had just won another poker game and was pulling in his winnings, the plate with a partially eaten sandwich at his elbow. While laughing and crowing over his win, Naylor inadvertently elbowed the plate and it clattered onto the floor near my feet. I bent down and picked it up, placing the sandwich back on it.

"Here," I said, placing it back on the table.

The noise level died down and I tried not to glance about the place but couldn't keep my eyes from darting about. I turned my focus back to Naylor who had half-turned in his chair to look at me. He slowly rose and kicked his chair back. It fell sideways and people stepped back. A few who were closest to the door, slipped out.

"You 'spect me to eat garbage? That's been on the floor.. Here," he said picking up the sandwich. "You eat it, mister. You seem to think it's good enough for me so it's got to be goddamn good enough for you." He shook it in my face.

"No, thank you," I said calmly. "I was just being polite, helping out since you had knocked it off the table. But what I want is to have a little talk with you." I took off my hat and lay it on the bar. Perhaps he would view the action as a sign of humility – I hoped. If I had to crawl on my belly to get him to save Joe, I would. But that sandwich…I decided I could eat it if Naylor actually wanted me to although every ounce of self-respect I had was rebelling. But these people would never see me again so I could bear the humiliation if I had to.

"I'm sure you can get another sandwich." I raised my arm and signaled to the barmaid I had earlier spoken to. She came over but was leery. "Would you make this gentleman another sandwich? I'll pay if necessary."

"Sure," she said, edging her way around to the bar's end where the platters sat.

"Wait!" Naylor ordered, and she stopped in her tracks, looking at me with desperation. "I hate to waste food. Why look at this tender roast beef." He shoved some of the beef back between the bread with his thumb, then licked it clean. "Wait a minute. It's missin' a little somethin' needed to add more flavor." He lifted off the top piece and then spat brown tobacco juice on the meat. He replaced the top piece of bread, grinning. "Now," he said, holding the sandwich in front of my mouth, "take a bite."

I though of Joe, lying feverish with an infected arm. Images of Joe with his arm amputated at the elbow rose up in front of me and then the image of him lying, pale and lifeless with my father's arms draped across his corpse, sobbing. I looked at the sandwich, at Naylor's grinning face and then back to the bread with Naylor's embedded fingerprints. His nails and cuticles were grimy, his hands filthy.

I opened my mouth slightly – I had made up my mind to take a small bite in the hopes that would suffice but I just couldn't. "Eat!" he said, pushing it under my nose. Pride goeth before a fall and I slapped his hand away. The sandwich went flying and Naylor's face reflected his surprise.

"Why you….you…" Naylor didn't know how to react. I suppose he was a man who told others what to do and they unwaveringly followed his orders.

"I'm not hungry," I said, hoping I sounded brave because I was scared shitless. I picked up my hat and was raising it to my head when Naylor's huge fist shot out and he hit me so hard I heard my neck snap to the right as I fell to the floor. I couldn't move – that bastard had broken my neck – or so it felt because I couldn't move my head – pain radiated from my jaw down my whole left arm and the sound in my ears was like a hive of bees madly buzzing in my brain. I heard someone plead, "Don't, Naylor!" It was the barmaid. A tender mercy but it was useless as I felt myself pulled up by my shirt front. I imagine I hung from his meaty fist like a hooked trout, too exhausted even to fight anymore. Naylor's face loomed over me and I knew he was going to hit me again and smash my nose and cave in my face. My mind urged me to get my gun and my hand struggled with the front of my jacket but I quickly felt the smooth handle and withdrew it, raising it up. But Naylor, seeing the gun, knocked my hand aside but before my gun flew from my hand, I squeezed the trigger. A cacophonous death rattle came from the piano and I thought that finally, a bullet had put it to rest. I waited as I knew what was coming – Naylor's huge fist. Then another gunshot was fired and I hit the floor again because Naylor dropped me. But once on the floor, a weight dropped across my legs and part of my left side. I thought, this is it, I'm going to die, and allowed the blackness to swallow me.

~ 0 ~

The coolness on my forehead was the first sensation once I came to and my first thought was, "I'm still alive." And then the vise-like pain in my neck and left shoulder became vivid.

"He's comin' to." It was a woman's voice and I wondered where I was. I tried to think, tried to remember what had happened but my whole body hurt. I tired to say something but it seemed my jaw wouldn't work right. Then the same voice told me not to try to talk and I nodded, stopping quickly when I felt the shooting pain up the side of my neck. The cool cloth on my forehead was removed.

"Looks like he was kicked by a mule and came back for more," a man's voice declared. Then someone else spoke, another man, talking about foolhardy courage and I realized from the shuffling of boots that there were quite a few people in the room.

I wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep but forced myself to sit up, the barmaid assisting as best she could since I wavered. I grabbed the back of my neck and enduring the pain in my moving jaw, managed to say, "Oh, hell. What happened?" I forced my eyes open and looked about. I was in a small room and was on a cot. There were stacked crates labeled "whiskey" and a few beer kegs sitting end on end. I figured it was the saloon's storeroom where someone, perhaps the bartender, could nap. It didn't matter where I was though as long as it wasn't perdition itself – I was fully grateful I was alive.

I did notice that no one answered me. The 10 or so men who stood against the wall or sat on crates just looked at one another as did the barmaid. Then one of the men cleared his throat and spoke.

"You killed Naylor Stewart. Missed 'im once but shot 'im in the heart second time. Self-defense, of course. We'll all attest to that"

I chuckled. "I only killed that player piano before I lost my gun."

"No, no," one of the men said eagerly. "You shot twice. Second shot killed 'im."

I looked about. "So, you're telling me that after Naylor Stewart practically did me in, I managed to shoot him?"

"That's right. It was you – a passing stranger. Some dark-haired man who…" He looked about for help.

"Yeah. You two got in an argument over…"

Another man took over the explanation. "Poker. You beat Naylor – being a stranger and all. Naylor accused you of cheatin' and…you spat at the floor near his boot so he had to fight you. But you shot twice, missing once and he didn't have no gun. Orwell, Naylor's brother will be here once he hears what happened, will want to know who shot his brother, so's I'd leave iffen I was you. I mean he'll be asking all of us who killed Naylor and it's you – a cowboy passing through. That Orwell, he's one for revenge. So, I'd hightail out of town 'cause one of us got to take Naylor's body back to his wife and she'll write Orwell."

I swung my legs over the side of the cot and looked from face to face, still rubbing my neck. I knew I hadn't shot and killed Naylor. "I only fired one shot," I said, "and that hit the piano."

"No, no, here's your gun." A man handed me my pistol and I pushed open the barrel; two chambers were empty.

I stood up – fighting nausea - and flipped the barrel shut, holstering my gun. "My brother is at the Stewarts'. Mrs. Stewart is doctoring him. I just wanted to explain that to her husband, why we were there at his home and ask for his permission to stay another day or two. But I guess that's not important now. The least I can do is return his body to her. Where is he?"

There was a collective sigh of relief. Then the bartender spoke. "We got him tied over the saddle of his horse. A woman never takes well having her husband delivered that way but Belva, she knows how he was, how Naylor got when he was drunk. I'm sure she'll understand when you explain the circumstances, how you had no choice but to kill 'im."

"Yeah," I said, adjusting my jacket and taking my hat from the barmaid. "I'm sure she'll understand."


	5. Chapter 5

**I imagine that most readers expected an adventure story with Adam comforting a crying, suffering Joe but I tried to make the point of the story something else. I hope it works and that is the reason I chose 1st person narration. Or, the story will disappoint you, but I hope not. Thanks for reading. **

**And all guest reviews will be deleted.**

**Five**

Naylor's body lay in the Stewart barn for four days wrapped in an old oilcloth that once protected a table. It was Belva's decision to postpone his burial alongside the graves of their children because she wanted a fresh grave to show Orwell when he arrived. She explained that then, Orwell would think the death was more recent as she planned to write her brother-in-law once Joe and I were on our way and since Joe was doing well, that would be soon.

But the night Naylor was killed, my ride from Goshen to the Stewarts' was painful as every step my horse took jarred me. My headache made me sick to my stomach and a few times I stopped and retched over the side of my horse, leaving a small pool of bile in the dirt. When I rode into the yard, Belva stepped out on the porch.

"It's your beloved husband," I sarcastically announced. She walked over and grabbing his hair, pulled up his head to look into his face. Then she released it and the head dropped down and she stepped back, looking at me. I leaned forward. "The people in the saloon say I shot him but to be honest, I don't think I did. I hope that doesn't void our agreement because he's dead all the same."

"No; I'm satisfied. I'll get an old tablecloth. Take him 'round back and wrap him in it. Leave him in the barn. And see to his horse, will you?" Belva turned and went back inside. She showed no emotion over Naylor's death, not even relief, but I suppose that's better than dancing a little jig of joy.

I did what she asked and saw that Joe's horse was already tended to and in one of the stalls – Belva must have done it. So, despite the dizzying pain that held me in its grip, I tended my horse and the Stewart's horse and finally made it inside where Joe was sleeping and Belva sat in a rocking chair.

"You hungry?" she asked. Then her face changed. "Now I see you in the light, looks like you got into a tussle."

"A tussle. If only…Naylor practically danced on my face and I have a headache from hell." I rubbed the back of my neck, moving it about.

Belva rose from the chair, the empty rocker moving back and forth as if a ghost sat there. "I'll get you a headache cure – it'll put you to sleep. You can sleep in the bedroom and I'll stay out here with your brother."

"Thank you," I said. "How is he?"

"Sleeping. I gave him some valerian. It smells bad but it works well; it's part of that headache remedy I mentioned. In the morning, I'll cut off the dead flesh and start poultices to draw out any infection."

"How long until he's good enough to travel?" Each word was agony for my swollen jaw.

"It all depends on how strong he is. Now I'll go make that headache remedy for you."

I nodded and while Belva went into the kitchen, I stepped over to Joe. His color was good, his skin no longer waxy, so bending down, I felt his forehead; he was still overly-warm but not burning with fever. And his breathing was easier; he was even lightly snoring.

I slept well, thanks to Belva's medicinal draught, and although I still had a slight headache in the morning, it was what Hoss would call niggling. It was just there at the back of my head reminding me that it could explode at any time should I give it a reason. My jaw was also reluctant to move but I gingerly massaged it, feeling for any broken bone, until I could speak with minimum pain. I had seen myself in the mirror over the bureau in the bedroom and although much of the back silvering was gone, the reflection was good enough for me to see that practically the whole left side of my face was purple. But my teeth were intact although one lower molar seemed a bit loose; it would settle in but I avoided eating on that side.

Belva had made me some oat gruel – probably from the barn's store and intended for the horses – but it was easy to eat and bland enough for my stomach that still threatened revolt. And while I was finishing my coffee at the small kitchen table, I heard a rider come into the yard. I stood but Belva had also heard and when I stepped into the parlor, she told me it was one of the men from Goshen. She went out and I walked to the front window to watch. The man never dismounted but leaning on the pommel, talked and then Belva nodded, said something, he nodded and rode away and she came back in. She stood and looked at me.

"That was Frank Little. He told me all the people in the saloon say you killed Naylor – and they'll swear to it when Orwell arrives – a passing stranger. I let them know I hadn't written him yet, hadn't had the time but I would in a few days."

"Did he ask you my name?" I could see Orwell Stewart coming after me and there being another death; his or mine.

"No, but even if he had, I can't rightly remember it – and I'd recommend you don't remind me." She sighed and seemed to perk up a bit. Didn't surprise me though; everyone who mattered now had their stories straight. She looked at Joe and then back to me.

"Was your breakfast all right? I'll make soup for dinner. I have some ham bone that'll flavor it but first, I need to trim that skin on his arm – cut away all the putrid flesh. I wonder, would you sharpen the scissors for me? There's a whet stone used to sharpen tools and such in the barn."

I did as she asked and before Joe was sedated, as he had woken while I was out in the barn sharpening the small scissors, Belva said he asked after me, where I was. She told me she let Joe know I was alive and sharpening some tools for her. When Joe asked if I had killed Naylor, she told him, yes, that's what the people in Goshen said. She reported Joe shed a few tears. I supposed they were for me and my now-damned soul.

Belva was good as her word, clipping away the flesh to make for a clean healing. She said Joe would need stitches but she would leave the wound open and keep the herbal poultices on it. Once I got to where we were going – she never asked me for our destination nor did I volunteer – I should ask the doctor to stitch the wound shut should it need it. She said her final bandage would hold the sides of the cut together and it might very well heal on its own.

The next three days I worked about the place, nailing down some loose boards on the porch, replacing a step, fixing the paddock fence, filling the wood box, and generally repaying Belva for tending Joe. I even climbed on the roof and hammered new shingles that I found stacked in the barn. Seems Naylor had good intentions but never followed through and didn't mind the ramshackle house as long as he had adequate drink. I also repaired a wagon wheel and greased the axles.

In addition, per Belva's request, I took an axe and smashed Naylor's still that sat in the barn. The whole time, his table-cloth wrapped corpse lay nearby and I'm sure he was furious to see the still's demise.

Joe quickly gained strength. Belva was a good cook and Joe ate greedily once he felt better. His cheeks regained their color but he still had a sadness in his eyes when he looked at me. He tried to ask me about Naylor but I put him off, saying we would talk later.

Nights, I slept outside – I just thought it was best that way. I also would be the first one to wake should anyone unexpected arrive. A man can't be too careful. And over the next few days, the bruised side of my face turned from deep blue-black to purple and was developing a yellowish tinge about the edges when I dug Naylor's grave. Belva stood and watched while I dragged Naylor's corpse which had begun to raise a stink, to the hole; it was more like four to five feet deep than six, but a good four feet wide; Belva said that was fine. Fat, black flies buzzed about trying to find a way to the corpse but I had wrapped and tied Naylor securely. I rolled him into the grave and Belva bent down and tossed a handful of dirt on him. Then she spat into the grave and walked back to the house. I filled in the hole.

The next day, Joe was well enough to travel, was eager to leave. Two days before he had begun sitting up on the divan, then the porch. It seemed spring was now here and a warm breeze arrived, a zephyr, the poets would say, that raised the curls in his hair as he turned his face to the sun. He's a damned pretty boy, I have to admit.

On the fifth morning, Belva saw us off and gave us a sack of baked hot biscuits with slices of hot bacon making nice sandwiches. Joe's arm was wrapped and the last I looked at it, the wound was pink and rosy and the threatening red streaks had greatly subsided. I promised Belva I would see to him proper.

Joe and I rode in silence but the first night we camped. Joe asked me about Naylor.

"Adam, I never thought you'd murder a man even if it was to save me. I still can't believe you did it."

I handed him a plate of hot beans and one of the cold biscuit and bacon sandwiches. "I was told I did but to be honest, I don't remember a damn thing except Naylor's fist coming at me again and me firing my gun. I believe I hit the player piano – not Naylor Stewart. My gun was fired twice but not by me, least not that I know."

Joe took the plate and I saw him smile, a sad smile but still a smile. "I understand, Adam. You don't want me to know what really happened. I understand. But it's, well, I have to admit I'd probably murder someone to save you too."

"Joe…" I wanted to explain but he stopped me.

"Don't, Adam. Let's just drop it. No need to talk about it anymore. It's best Pa not know what you did – but – and I know I shouldn't say it – thank you." He pulled up a forkful of beans and with one last grin at me, ate them, enjoying his meal.

I didn't know what to say, what to think. I had to find a way to disabuse Joe of the notion that I had killed Naylor in cold blood to save his life, that I wasn't a murderer. After all, I knew the only reason I had pulled my gun was to save myself – Joe didn't even play into it. But once I convinced Joe of the truth, what would he think of me then?

What indeed? I thought I had taken the moral high ground, done the right thing by not shooting Naylor down like a slavering, mad dog in the street to save Joe's life. But Joe thought I loved him so much that I had done it – committed cold-blooded murder.

So, what am I to think of myself now? I didn't try to kill Naylor to save Joe but to save my own miserable hide. And what does that make me? I really don't know but it leaves me wondering.

~ Finis ~


End file.
